An incorrigible romantic, he realized, Tom tried not to imagine that he loved her. And there they stood, face to face, discussing their day while the sun sank lower still, and they both were late. What did he see in her? He couldn’t love her she wasn’t his type; she was neurotic, pimpled, overweight—insecure—and besides, she was smarter than he was. She said she had to go. They were getting along just fine. But did it matter?—Tom couldn’t help but wonder, altho he was a fool to wonder, and he knew it. Her being possessed him. Over and over, he imagined how it would be: working at his desk, a fire in the fireplace, over his shoulder, a kiss— how romantic. These things never happen this way except in Hollywood. In real life it would be really silly. It would be hilarious if he were ever to let her know. They, he knew, would laugh it off, shudder inwardly, and say goodbye, see you later, sure, bye, later.
15 January 1981